The Jigsaw
by Hannah Lily Potter
Summary: The day of the fall is an incomplete Jigsaw Puzzle to Sherlock and he's missing some of the pieces. Is Molly Hooper the answer? Sad and short


It all started on the day of the fall. It was hard for Sherlock to decipher his memories from that tragic day. Everything was so distorted and confusing. His mind palace had no place for the useless mixture of thoughts and feelings, senses and flashes from the series of events that the day had held.

Yet, Sherlock didn't delete his memories of the day. They were pieces of a puzzle he had yet to finish and he wouldn't give up so easily. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes.

A recurring theme throughout his memories of the day was pain. A great deal of pain. He remembered being shouted at by John. Being confused, which in itself hurt, by Molly. Seeing Molly hurt, seeing John hurt. A gunshot. Then another. A waterfall of blood. Stepping from the roof and falling so very far.

Then... nothing.

Sherlock woke the next day in the flat of Molly Hooper; where he would reside for the months to come as he worked on bringing down Moriarty's network. He lay in Molly's bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while as he tried to remember all that he was missing.

Eventually, Molly entered her room and stood at the end of her bed watching him in silence.

"You're staring Molly." Sherlock noted, finally opening his eyes and meeting the gaze of her deep brown eyes.

"Hard not to." Molly smiled sadly, her voice no longer holding the stutter it once had around Sherlock. Had the mousy pathologist finally come to peace with his presence? "I never thought I'd be living with Sherlock Holmes."

"No." Sherlock murmured in reply, the slightest of smiles gracing his lips. Talking to Molly stopped his brain from hurting. Talking to Molly meant the jigsaw wasn't as important any more. He could imply talk to Molly and be himself. "I don't suppose you did." Sherlock sat up, ignoring the protests of his aching limbs. "But don't worry, I won't be going anywhere for a long while."

Molly smiled weakly again, "I'm glad, Sherlock. I made you breakfast, it's on the table."

Sherlock lay back down. "I'm not hungry... but thank you, Molly... for everything."

Molly retreated from the bedroom at that and began to get ready for work. Sherlock listened to her from his position. There was something strange about it, in that the clumsy doctor wasn't being so very clumsy any more. In fact, she was performing her morning routine with apparent ease.

Perhaps she was more comfortable in her own home then in the lab where she had knocked over so many vials and beakers in her time.

Sherlock didn't leave his spot until he heard the door shut and Molly was gone, leaving Sherlock to his muddled mind once more.

* * *

The Doctor and the Consulting Detective fell into an easy routine. In fact, it was so easy that Sherlock was surprised by how nice it was to be domestic... to an extent. Each morning they would wake. Molly would cook but Sherlock would never eat. He'd simply watch her. Watch her living like the human she was. Breathing and drinking and sleeping and eating. When Molly left for work, looking like the same old Molly she had always been: Hair tied back; minimal make up; smart clothes and a molly-esque cardigan, Sherlock would begin his work on the computer. He wouldn't stop until late afternoon when Molly returned from work. They would talk, sometimes for hours, though other times Molly would read or watch Television and Sherlock would simply watch her until she went to bed and he was left to his mind once more, wishing she was still there to distract him.

Not that he was feeling sentimental. Not at all. Watching Molly enabled him to calm his mind. It gave him a break from his confusion about the day of the fall. He stopped seeing flashes of the day and just saw Molly. The structure of her face, the curve of her smile, the twinkle in her eyes. It was just so captivating to Sherlock. She was a distraction from all the pain.

* * *

7 months and 3 days after the fall, Sherlock Holmes finished taking down the intricate web that Moriarty had woven across the world. All his allies were dealt with. All his power was washed away and all traces of 'Richard Brooke' were deleted from the world.

Sherlock was himself again and the final step in restoring his name was emailing Mycroft and announcing his return. Mycroft had received his email but was yet to reply.

That night when he told Molly his great news... that's when it ended.

"So you'll be going back to John now, I take it." Molly smiled that same small smile, her doe eyes wide with sadness.

"I imagine so... But I think... I would like you to come too, Molly."

"Sherlock-"

"I know it's a lot to ask, considering I've asked so much of you already, but when I'm around you I can rest. I can relax. You make me better."

"Sherlock... I can't come to baker street with you."

Sherlock frowned, his nose wrinkling as he attempted to decipher Molly's words before she could even explain herself. The truth was, he had no idea why Molly wouldn't want to go with him. She loved him and had proven she'd do anything for him.

"What happened, Sherlock? Remember what happened the day that you fell. Please try." Molly sat opposite Sherlock at the table, her eyes beseeching him to remember the pieces of the jigsaw that continued to elude him.

Sherlock then remembered.

There was more than just pain and hurt that day. There was a kiss. There was a promise and a hostage and then a gunshot.

Molly.

Then another.

Moriarty.

Then, with nothing to lose, Sherlock jumped. He left behind 2 corpses on the rooftop and didn't much care if he became the third.

Except he didn't.

He dragged himself back to Molly's empty flat and kept on sleeping until he finally awoke to Molly. He had deluded himself into thinking that she was alive and there for him as she always had been before. That her death wasn't his fault.

It was so clear now. Molly wasn't really there. That's why they never touched. That's why she didn't stutter or drops things any more. She was a flawless echo of the flawed woman that Sherlock knew and cared for.

"Look at you Sherlock, you're being sentimental." Molly told him softly, her eyes sparkling with a mischief Sherlock couldn't have expected from a dead woman.

"That's your fault." Sherlock replied in a deathly whisper.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes opened the door of a certain deceased and deserted Doctor Hooper's flat, expecting to find his brother prepared to leave the last 7 months behind and resume his previous life. He did not expect to find his brother stick thin and sat on the floor of a cleaned out and stripped to the bones flat, staring at nothing in particular with eyes full of tears.

"If you could stay here with me, why couldn't you come to Baker Street with me?" Sherlock asked the air around him and Mycroft stared in a mixture of confusion and horror. Who on earth was he talking to?

Silence ensued for all of a minute before Sherlock spoke again.

"John isn't you. He can't replace you."

More silence.

"I notice everything. How didn't I notice you."

…

A tear trailed down Sherlock's cheek and the heartless detective did nothing to hide it. Had he even noticed his brothers presence there yet?

Mycroft stared in wonder and guilt; how long had Sherlock been left all alone? Even if by his own choice.

"I'll still want you to be real, even with John at Baker Street."

Mycroft finally made he connection. It was Molly. Sherlock thought he was talking to Molly.

* * *

"It's time for you to move on Sherlock. Look. Mycroft is here now. You don't need me any more."

"I do. I need you, Molly."

"Sherlock." Molly Hooper smiled that lovely, precious, small smile of hers and blinked softly. "Go with Mycroft, so home to Baker street and John. But remember... just because you won't see me any more, it doesn't mean that I'm not there."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft spoke up for the first time and Sherlock's head turned sharply to look at him. There was a realization fresh on the older Holmes's face and pity in his eyes. "Are you ready to leave?"

Sherlock turned back around to face Molly and found, instead, an empty flat. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper." He muttered as he stood to leave, because, really, she was still there. The last piece of the jigsaw. His pathologist.

* * *

_**I'm sorry this is so bad but I just needed to post something other than Harry Potter. **_


End file.
